


Scribble

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29689206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Leo needs bailing out.
Relationships: Leo Manfred & Markus
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Scribble

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Markus is in the kitchen when the front door opens—the sensors in the entranceway automatically reroute to his system. He stills with his hand around the corn flakes box, in the midst of resorting Carl’s cereal supply. The flakes go back where they were, and Markus exits out into the hall. He already knows who it is—could hear from the steps and pattern of breath and even a faint sneeze. Leo Manfred might not know a thing about him, but Markus knows _everything_ about Leo, right down to the sound of his old sneakers and the inflections of his voice box. Markus can even tell that this isn’t one of Leo’s worse days, although he looks unsettled.

Leo almost _always_ looks unsettled. He has his hands stuffed into the pockets of his wrinkled blue jacket, his beanie lopsided but his hair at least brushed underneath it—the dark brown strands appear healthier than his last visit. His deep brown eyes are less bloodshot. His chin is shaven to dull stubble—a little more than Markus simulates but nowhere near a full beard. His posture’s self conscious but erect. He looks up as soon as Markus steps towards him, and then he casts a fleeting glance to the stairs.

“Carl isn’t home,” Markus reports. For anyone else, he’d offer a greeting: Hello, Good Afternoon, maybe even Hi. But Leo’s never responded favourably to those, so Markus skips to the point. “He’s visiting Mr. Kamski, but I can contact him if you like.”

Leo’s mouth twists up in a frown—a definite “no.” But there’s no other reason for Leo to stop by. He never comes to see Markus. Markus hovers at an arm’s length anyway, waiting Leo out. 

Leo hesitates with whatever he wants to stay. He wastes time scuffing his shoes against the polished tile, and Markus registers the trace elements of earth he’s dragged inside—something Markus will have to clean on his departure. Leo never cleans up after himself. Rarely even _cleans up himself._ He does look like he at least tried today. It takes him a few attempts of opening and closing his mouth before he finally sucks in a deep breath and turns to face Markus head on, blurting, “I fucked up.”

Markus blinks and politely says nothing else. He neither expresses agreement or disagreement, no matter what conclusions his coding comes to on the inside. 

“Fuck... you know what I mean.” Leo glances aside, lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his head, adjusting his hat. Markus has no idea what specific problem he’s referring to. “Like, more than usual, I guess. I went and got a tattoo, and...” He just trails off, and it hangs in the air for a conspicuously long moment. 

Markus offers, “Carl has many tattoos.” Which of course Leo knows. It’s a useless statement. But he means it in the sense that getting a tattoo is hardly a ‘fuck up’, especially in the Manfred family.

“Yeah,” Leo snorts. “Good ones.” His features twist in a show of disgust despite no stimulus prompting it. He stares at Markus for twelve seconds longer, then shakes his head and rolls up his sleeve. 

He thrusts out his arm, turning it, and Markus eyes the black lines along the underside, twisting all the way from his elbow to his wrist. It takes Markus a second to register what the drawing’s supposed to be, which is notable, given that his program’s imminently familiar with artistic impressions. It bears some semblance to a machine in the shape of a lion with a snake for a tail, set on a background of stylized flowers not all that unlike the mosaic on Carl’s back.

Except Carl’s is beautifully done, and Leo’s is...

Markus reminds himself that he’s unequipped to _truly_ judge art. Carl often asks for his opinion, but that’s only the misplaced personification of a sentimental man. Markus doesn’t offer his opinion to Leo.

Leo admits for him, “Yeah, I know, it sucks. It looks like a friggin’ toddler drew it. I must’ve been high as hell when I got it. By the time I sobered up enough to even realize what happened, the bandages were already on, and then I didn’t wanna peek until it healed because... I dunno, I guess I was hoping it’d somehow be okay. But... it’s not.”

It’s certainly not. If Markus woke up to find the same outline imprinted on his plating, he’d go in for repairs. Carl often sets aside money in a separate account for him, lest he require paid software upgrades or replacement clothes, and Carl’s even told him once or twice to use it frivolously— _on whatever he wants._ On the whole, he considers Leo reasonably attractive, but if he had Leo’s left arm, he’d want a new one. 

Shoving the sleeve back down, Leo asks, expression grave, “Can you fix it?”

Markus’ eyes slowly lift to Leo’s. He checks the log back to be sure he processed the words right. Leo shifts uncomfortably and mutters, “Look, you know how dad is. He can be so pretentious sometimes. I don’t want him to judge me.”

Markus hadn’t even considered that consequence—Carl’s approval. He doubts Carl would be any more displeased about a tattoo than Leo’s regular behaviour, even when the tattoo’s terrible. If it was actually going to be an issue for Carl, of course Markus would find a way to help.

But: “I don’t have the equipment or programming to remove tattoos.”

Leo actually flinches. “N-no way! I didn’t mean—shit, I don’t wanna get it removed; that’s supposed to hurt worse than giving birth!” Markus was under the impression that getting standard tattoos also ‘hurt’, but then, he wouldn’t know how to measure human pain. Not that Leo could know how much giving birth hurts, unless Markus’ records are drastically wrong. “Can’t you just... I dunno. Make it more... artsy?”

Frowning, Markus glances back to Leo’s arm. It’s covered, but his memory banks still hold the pattern. He’s not programmed to paint like Carl is. But he can extrapolate design choices based on Carl’s work, and when he sets a subroutine to it, he can determine where holes would need to be filled in, where embellishments could hide sloppy linework, or added details could justify other blemishes. But: “I’m sorry, Leo. I don’t have equipment or programming for that either.” Besides, he’s fairly certain that level of body modification requires some sort of license or other mark of professionalism. 

Leo doesn’t seem to care. He steps closer, fidgety, and Markus doesn’t back away—he lets Leo get so close that he can practically _feel_ the tremour in Leo’s voice. “Markus, I don’t _care_.” It’s incredibly telling that Leo uses his name. Leo never addresses him, never talks to him like this, like he’s _a person_. “Guys do it in prison all the time. That way’s good enough. And you don’t need programming or whatever—you’re already friggin’ perfect. Whatever you can draw would be better than I could, and you’d get it right the first time—you can do _everything_ —”

Usually, that’s meant as an insult. It’s not here. It’s desperate and hopeful and reaching some buried line of code in Markus that shouldn’t be active. He cuts Leo off— “That would be dangerous—”

“You’re a freakin’ robot! You don’t have to worry about germs ‘n shit! And you’re not gunna fuck up and cut too deep—and can’t you, like... connect to the internet or something, and figure out all the right techniques?” Markus opens his mouth to protest again, but Leo adds, hoarse, “It’ll be fine. I trust you.”

He couldn’t possibly. He doesn’t even _like_ Markus. At least, Markus always thought that. All the evidence pointed to it. Even though he’s tried to extend the proverbial olive branch a dozen times. He knows Carl wants them to get along. He knows he could do a better job taking care of Leo than Leo’s doing himself. 

In a way, this is an invitation for it. Leo’s staring at him, eyes pleading, and that disarming earnestness somehow overwrites whatever logical protocols Markus should have. He decides, “I’ll take you to a shop. There are three parlors that accept walk-ins within a small enough radius that we should be able to get you an appointment and still be able to pick up Carl in time.”

Leo wrinkles his nose. “I can’t afford that. I don’t know how I paid for _this_ one—”

“I have money set aside. I’ll pay for it.”

Leo’s face twists, perhaps at the realization that his father gives Markus money and perhaps at the charity. For a man in such dire straights, Leo often exhibits a harmful degree of pride. He stares at Markus petulantly for a moment, then eventually slumps. 

Instead of fighting it like Markus expected, he quietly asks, “And you’ll stay with me?”

Markus nods. That’s when he realizes what it’s really about—not even so much Markus’ expertise, but company. Markus knows that oftentimes when humans are in pain, they just want a hand to hold.

Leo doesn’t have anyone to offer that. But it’s something Markus is good at, and something he, strangely, against all odds, enjoys doing. At least, he likes _being there_ for Carl. He’s interested to see if he’d like being there for Leo. 

Leo opens his mouth but stumbles over syllables a few times before finally managing, “Thanks.” It comes out blunt, hurried, and then he turns quickly away, and his cheeks are flushed a light shade of pink. It’s the first time Leo’s ever expressed gratitude to him. 

It’s something. It’s a start. Markus notes, “We could fit in a short lunch first, if you’re hungry.”

But Leo shakes his head—he’s already turning and wandering for the door. 

Markus follows, ready to be everything another Manfred needs.


End file.
